


When I'm Sixty-Four

by a_big_apple



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Glasses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fuhrer of Amestris tries to write a memoir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Sixty-Four

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Untitled Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/221887) by cucumis. 



_Chapter Three: Finding Fullmetal_  
  
In my Lieutenant Colonel days there weren’t enough State Alchemists to go around—after what happened in Ishval, recruitment was down, and the ranks were thinned by death and desertion. I was sent out, with Second Lieutenant Hawkeye at my side, to find talented alchemists and convince them to join our ranks. I knew, even then, that if I could only find and bring back top notch talent, my efforts would be rewarded with accolades at the least, a promotion at best. That was quite enough motivation for me—I had my sights set on the top.  
  
Some misinformation brought Riza and I to a house on a hill in a little village in the East, full of farmers and sheep and, as rumor had it, two very talented alchemists supposedly in their thirties.  
  
What I found there at the edge of Resembool was not at all what I’d expected:  an array for human transmutation smeared with gore and, in a nearby house, the two little boys who'd survived its activation.  
  
"Roy!"  
  
_Survived, but barely.  The younger of the two was a ten-year-old soul bound to a seven-foot suit of antique armor, unable smell or taste or feel anything he touched.  The elder, eleven, was confined to a wheelchair when I first saw him, small for his age and made smaller by an empty right shirtsleeve and left pant leg, compressed by the weight of guilt and loss._  
  
My eye fixed on him first—the bright gold of his hair and his eyes drew my attention like a firefly on a dark night—and in my horror at the blood-soaked transgression I'd found in the house on the hill, I lifted him out of the chair by his collar, screamed my anger into his blank face.  Then the looming steel shadow behind him reached out a hand, spoke in the voice of a frightened little boy, and I understood just how much these children had already paid for their mistake.  
  
"Roy, have you seen my glasses?"  
  
_That was the first time I ever laid eyes on the Elric brothers, there in the living room of a country house, under the disapproving scowl of their formidable guardian.  I was young; as I've said already, I was ambitious.  I was accomplished enough as an alchemist to know that two boys their age who could come up with that devastating circle, activate it, and come out the other side even marginally intact could be my ticket to the top.  I also knew that they had only two choices—remain as they were for the rest of their lives, or throw in their lot with the military and have hope of finding a way to reverse their tragedy._  
  
"Play deaf all you want, Roy, I know you can hear me!"  
  
_For better or for worse, I planted the seed.  A year later, twelve-year-old Edward Elric (fitted with two automail limbs in an incredible feat of recovery time) surpassed myself as the youngest State Alchemist ever, and entered my command with the name Fullmetal._  
  
That first day in Resembool, there had been a fire in Edward's eyes like none I had ever seen before.  
  
"Dammit, Roy!"  
  
_Nearly forty years later, his eyes still burn—and I am a man who has made a career of playing with fire._  
  
"Roy Mustang, you complete bastard, didn't you hear me calling for you all over the damn house?"   
  
The Fuhrer of Amestris closes the notebook and sets the pen aside.  He swivels in his chair just in time to see his lover storm in, eyes blazing, shirtsleeves rolled up and the tanned line of his throat exposed by undone buttons.  He is as breathtakingly attractive as he has ever been, and the Fuhrer smiles to see him coming.  
  
"I knew it.  I fucking knew it, you always steal my glasses!  You have eighty pairs of your own, you leave them all over the place except in your fucking pocket when you need them!" fumes the Fuhrer's lover, hands on hips.    
  
"Ed."  
  
"Don't 'Ed' me with that little grin on your face, I know I'm still hot and my ego's not as big as yours, and I'm trying to write a letter to my fucking _brother_ , Roy, and I _can't see to write it._  I know you get perverse pleasure out of torturing me about getting old, like you're one to talk, you ass—”  
  
His lover's tirade has gone on long enough, and the Fuhrer knows just how to stop it:  a light touch on his flesh arm, a gentle tug at his lapel, a slow kiss.  The kiss is more dangerous—his lover's beard, a point of contention, is a little scratchy and unsettling when it rubs against his face.  Still, it's worth braving to have those lips on his, that grudgingly offered tongue sliding into his mouth, to see golden eyes flutter closed in bliss just as they did the very first time.  
  
When they break apart, his lover huffs out a soft laugh and gently tugs the glasses from his face.  "Manipulative bastard."  
  
The Fuhrer just takes his lover's flesh hand and kisses his fingers one by one.


End file.
